


Twenty Minutes to Sleep

by writergirl3005



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Day 19: Grief, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Whumptober 2020, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl3005/pseuds/writergirl3005
Summary: As a nurse during the war, Phryne could never rest, there was too much to do. Inspired by Taylor Swift's 'Epiphany'.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: MFMMwhumptober2020





	Twenty Minutes to Sleep

The soldier looked at her blankly. “So Sister, will I be able to continue fighting?”

As much as Phryne hated it, she had to do her duty. “It’s just a flesh wound,” she said. “Once I’m done bandaging this, you can take a rest for a day and be back on the front lines the next.”

The soldier nodded. "Thank you, Sister. I need to be on the front lines. My brothers need me."

He was young, Phryne thought. If this war hadn’t happened, he would still be in school, laughing with his friends, having dinner with his family, maybe stepping out with a girl he liked.

But he was a soldier now. And he could do none of those things.

Not even a childhood in Collingswood prepared her for what she’d seen.

One of the things Phryne hated the most was performing triage on the soldiers after a battle. There were so many to help, but they had limited time and supplies. Their orders were to help only the ones who had the highest chances of recovery.

It ripped her heart out of her chest to ignore the cries of pain of dying men. But she had her orders, and she needed to follow them.

* * *

When Phryne was able to take a break, she would write letters to Mother.

They were filled with false cheer, and Phryne restricted herself to writing about the gossip and shenanigans that occurred among the doctors and nurses.

How could she tell her mother about the men whose hands she held as they bled out?

How could she tell about the barren fields of the countryside, which were so soaked in blood that only poppies could grow?

How could she describe the fear that despite not being a soldier, she faced the prospect of being killed each and every day?

Mother would never be able to understand. Neither would Father. Only the people who could were the ones who shared this hell with her.

* * *

She met up with Mac for drinks when she could.

Tonight, Mac was trying to drown herself in bootleg whiskey.

“We ran out medical supplies again,” said Mac. “And we had so many deaths.” She gulped down her shot and refilled her glass. “I doubt anything in medical school would be able to prepare us for this.”

“I don’t think anything anywhere would have prepared any of us for this,” Phryne countered.

Mac raised her glass in commiseration before drowning it in a single gulp.

* * *

Phryne did her best to sit by the dying men (boys) whenever she could. No one should have to die alone. She learnt enough so that she could speak with them in the language of their mothers as they took their dying breaths.

It was all that she could offer them, and it seemed to be such a pittance. But all of them thanked her, grateful for even that small amount of compassion.

It never felt like it was enough.

She couldn’t understand why any of this happened. Why these boys had to die in a foreign land, away from friends and family. No matter how hard she tried, how hard she searched, she couldn’t find any answers. Perhaps she never would.

* * *

Her shift was finally over. Phryne was glad that she could discard her uniform (which was more red and brown than white by now), take a shower and rest. Then she would be called out again, having to see more boys killed, crying out for the mothers.

Once she was clean and dressed in a new uniform, she collapsed onto the nearest cot that was set aside for nurses to sleep. She had perhaps twenty minutes to rest. Maybe not even that.

She had no tears left to cry for all the lives that were lost today. She hadn’t had any tears to cry for months now. Perhaps she had cried too much when she had first come to the front, and now, she had used up a lifetime allotment of tears.

“Sister,” one of the head nurses called out. “We need you in the medical tent. A soldier needs to have his leg amputated.”

"I'll be along," said Phryne and dashed off to help. A nurse's job was never done.


End file.
